


A Lullaby For The Left Behind

by LimpBiskit



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LimpBiskit/pseuds/LimpBiskit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visit my archive for fic, media and more. http://asshat.0fees.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lullaby For The Left Behind

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**  
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[complete](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/complete), [fanfic](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [rated:r](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/rated%3Ar), [sherlock](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock)  
  
---|---  
  
Title: A Lullaby For The Left Behind  
Author: LimpBiskit  
Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
Pairing: Almost!Sherlock/John  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Character Death, Slash Implications, Mentions of Drugs, Suicide and Delerium.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

It was all so amazing, that the world went on without the slightest notice of his despair.

There was a low sound in his mind, something like the ghost of sardonic laughter, but he knew all too well that there were no such things as spirits, be they well intentioned or malevolent.

If there had been, he could possibly have kept some part of _his_ memory closer, warmer than the tears that slicked his cheeks _crying why are you crying_ so viciously as he lay marble-still in the half darkness.

Instead, he gathered his thin sheet about himself in paltry defense against the cold, as if it mattered, as if he really cared about the state of his health.

How ridiculous that was, when more than anything in the world he longed for the final sickness, some fitting repast that would send him to the place where there were no dreams of lost living, love set aside for later and left untouched until there was no more time..

His hands were always steady now, giving silent testimony to the strain he endured with every hour that passed.

They had been so careful to keep him sedated _is he in pain_ while what was left of him mended, always taking care that the silence was broken at regular _most people like it_ times by some form of sound, most often a radio he could never quite locate _where do you think of course here with me you fool_ or clearly hear.

He fancied that it was Vivaldi, or perhaps a nocturne in a minor _so depressing, must you really_ key, but in the end it never mattered, not when he sometimes closed his eyes and swore that the very **air** throbbed with the wistful tunes.

He wished that there was some blade afforded him, that he might sever himself from whatever madness this was, slice away what held him _hold him somethings wrong_ in this place. The thought of bright steel and crushed-rose blood almost, _almost_ made him smile, but there was nothing of pleasure in it, not when he could recall another splash of crimson and silver so very well-

_-can't be real don't cover Oh God there's glass on his face in his hair why doesn't someone clear it off his eyes are still so open and unsurprised-_

And he laughed, the sound of it mad even to his own ears and _Oh_ he thought maybe it was only a scream broken into pieces that sounded like something else..

There were nights that slipped by him completely, the wax and wane of light missed _please I miss you_ as he swayed in place to the strains of music that only he could hear, a concerto, a waltz, but sometimes only slow octaves up and down that left him so breathless that he wondered why _damn it you can't mean to stay like this_ he hated those nights, but sometimes he loved them with all the strength of his unraveled heart.

Oftimes, half-gone with pain and grief, he'd imagine the sensation of long fingers closing over the skin he'd struggle to cleave, perhaps the ball of a thumb tracing the radiating lines upward to their end as he watched _here I'm right here_ in horrified fascination. Shivering trails of gooseflesh would follow the slow touch, and for only an instant he _believed_ that there must be more, something indefinable that awaited him at the end of **his** time, but then the heat had returned and there was nothing to do but forget.

That very first night had been the easiest, with the burning shroud of Morphine to cover the ragged edges of his loss, but the dreams has been inescapable, the drug holding him fast as the losing played out again and again and again behind his closed eyes as he slept-

_please say no not yet I never gave you never had enough you can't not without me_

And yet, he welcomed those fleeting moments now, prayed _O God_ and cajoled what power may be that he _John_ would have even one instant of timeless dark to play over and speak the things he'd meant or perhaps **needed** to say.

But he _had_ said it, all of it as he'd lain the the glow of Hellfire with no regrets, surely it would be both of them, there was no way that a benevolent God would take only half and leave the other to pine..

They'd told him over and over that it had only been in his mind, the creeping chill and warm wetness beneath him, told him that it hadn't been _his_ life that soaked the fabric of his clothing straight to the skin as he'd waited for the thread to break, to loose what soul they may have had to seek it's rest-

How he hated them for their truth, hated **him** for leaving alone _won't let you be alone_ the one person in all the world who needed so much and had so little.. He hadn't known until that moment, when the chill had risen to heart-level and the words more painful than the cold had passed his lips so willingly, that it was something that needed saying at any cost.

But the price had been beyond him.

How funny it was, that the first mention of love had tasted of copper and sadness, and hadn't been enough to invoke some bit of magic that would save or at least send them together..

No magic had intervened, nor had any God from on high. _Amen_

There had been nothing more than a ragged sigh, an almost convulsive clenching of bloodied fingertips against his equally _hold on, stay, stay_ torn palm, and silence. He'd only closed his eyes _wake up_ for an instant, just enough to stave off unconsciousness, really.. But when he blinked them open there had been no color, the world had shifted to flattened two dimensionality _flat he's gone flat do something_ and he had wondered if this was the way of things, the loss of sight and sound as Death approached.

Even the low crackle of hungry flames had faded, leaving no trace of sound for his waiting ears.  
And he'd waited, waited and whispered on and on _I know he can hear me_ until other hands had borne them apart, their eyes still locked as some foolish creature had dared to draw a sheet over the other's soot-smudged face and the volume of his screams had shocked even him as some part of him **knew** that this was the last chance he would ever have to awaken _you have to get some sleep no not yet_ from what must surely be the mother of all nightmares-

But he slept on, unable to rouse himself no matter how he'd tried.

He never spoke to the faceless, nameless ones who tended his wounds, told him the he was lucky to be alive and on the mend. Eyes tightly closed, he refused all attempts at living, had raged like some maddened beast when he'd felt the biting slide of a sustaining needle into his unwilling vein-

And in the background there was something like **his** voice, discordant harmony to the lilting rise and fall of arpeggio and andante, if he kept his eyes closed it was more real than this place..

There were days without end.

  
Untrue nights that held only _stop this foolishness John_ pieces of reality.

The same slow melodies, reaching through him from somewhere other than this wretched now..

But how strange, how _look see there he does hear_ fantastic it was, that music.

  
Not random screeches and quick plucking notes, but _song._

  
He'd always known that the man he missed so badly could produce such a thing, but chose not to for sheer contrariness, it was just the way he was.

  
Had been.

  
**It was the way he had been.**

  
The words were so pitifully bitter, even within his own mind.

Had. Were. Before. **Then.**

All these and more, his contrived and merciless arch-enemies, so much less brilliant _**fight** god damn you_ than what he would have imagined.

They came for him in the darkness, played onesided hide-and-seek with his uncertainty, led him along by no more than a wisp of what lay beyond this futile suffering-

Tonight would be different.

Tonight he lay back against blankets that could not be real, opened his eyes to a ceiling that separated him from where _come back come home_ he most wanted to be, waiting until something of those departed colors returned.

Surely they would, if he wanted enough, prayed enough, pleaded.. It couldn't _you can't_ be this way, not anymore, he'd never been so _please John_ alone in all his life, not even the desert could compare to this miserable _need you_ loneliness.

The voices, the ones that came and went as he waited, they told him again and again that he had to go on, had to let go, there was no more flatmate, no more colleague, no more brilliant spiller of secrets-

That Sherlock was gone, swept into the void that awaited all mortal men.

He laughed along with that remembered voice, because so was he.

Perhaps not as far, not as completely, but gone still.

As for tonight, there would be no _no more I'll make him_ dreaming, no music to lull him away from his intended destination.

Tonight he would stare down _you can't_ the darkness, watch until the abyss blinked _just watch me_ and then-

Then, he would see again. Find the source of those phantom touches and force himself through the barrier that kept **them** from being real, as real as a slap _you can't strike an invalid you're mad, mad_ to the face after an eternity of hysteria-

 **  
**_Pain._  


Oh, it was sweet, so sweet and so close to **real** that he could all but taste the blood of a bitten cheek on his tongue-

 **  
**_Again!_  


The force of it brought flashes of searing light into his dimmed vision, painfully welcome brightness that left him weeping as the stark whiteness of it consumed him-

And there was _sound_ , overlapping and chaotic, _color_ that was deliciously shocking, and a shadowed darkness that clutched at him so strongly that there was no hope of escape-

This time he refused to blink, refused to close his eyes for even an instant no matter what the cost, not when he'd reached and found the very _source_ of it all, not when the words were there and so were they and Oh, he was right all along-

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"When did you know?"

He smiled despite the persistent throb of his bruised jaw, relished the pain for the blessing that it was. "Since the beginning. I knew there wasn't any way-"

The brunette snorted quietly, cutting him off. "Not that, you ninny. When did you finally realize that I felt the same way?"

John laughed aloud, shaking his head. "I didn't. I hoped that you did, but it wasn't as important as telling you while I had the chance." The detective's stunned expression further stirred his hilarity, the effort of it leaving him almost lightheaded as he struggled to calm himself. "I still can't believe that you were so bored with waiting that you _hit_ me. You're incredibly lucky that they didn't truss you up and cart you off to the loony house."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, reaching for the neck of his violin. "They'd have had to drug me first, and I doubt they had enough on hand to attempt it.. And you were _weeks_ on, what else did you expect? Besides, it seems to have worked. Imagine that, I wonder how many others could be similarly brought back to themselves by way of a quick rap about the head."

The blond huffed sternly, pointing at the other's thoughtful face. "You're _not_ going to make the rounds of the Intensive, Sherlock. It's all well and good for the morgue, but I severely doubt they'd simply look the other way as you assault the patients for some experiment."

The younger man only shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by the threat of a negatory response. "Then I suppose I'll just have to stay here with you, won't I?" His expression changed from wry humor to complete seriousness so quickly that anyone else would have been left floundering, but John was long past the point of surprise at his mercurial nature. "I couldn't stand it, honestly.. You told me that, and then you were just _gone_ , between one blink and the next."

He shifted uncomfortably under the doctor's silent scrutiny, his eyes steady in spite of his clear anxiety. "I thought I'd lost you. Lost everything, before it even began." He flinched when the older man leaned forward, as if he expected to be ridiculed for his uncharacteristic sentiment

John found it terribly endearing.

"There's always something you miss.. You told me that yourself. This time you missed the fact that I've no intention of being lost." He squeezed the brunette's fingers tightly, smiling at his astonished blink. "Just try to be rid of me, now that you've gone and woke me up.. I'm afraid you won't be able to think your way out of this one, _dear._ "

Sherlock hummed quietly, averting his eyes. "Well, you're right and truly knackered. So gone that you're beginning to spout trite romanticisms in your growing delerium." But faint color dusted his high cheekbones, the tone of his voice belying his awkward pleasure. "Have a rest, I'm not leaving until they let me take you home.. Besides, Mrs. Hudson's taken my skull and Lestrade took your gun. Something about decency and _reasonable caution,_ the fools."

The older man snorted drowsily, leaning back against the assorted pillows behind him. "Probably didn't want you shooting up the ward.. But I think I could do with a nap. Play for me?"

The detective nodded firmly, bow already in hand. "Anything you like.. Did you have a request?"

Humming thoughtfully, John smiled. "Brahms. The lullaby you played before." He winced at a short twinge of strained muscles, the expression duly noted by the other even as he began to play.

"Does it still hurt, John..? I really didn't think I had hit you so hard, but it _is_ alarmingly purple.."

Affecting a tone of felonious piety, John waved a tired hand in what he hoped was the other's general direction. "I forgive you, just don't make a habit of it.. You know how Mrs. Hudson hates our little _domestics._ "

The notes evened into a familiar candence, the sound urging him on to the first real sleep he'd wanted. He was very near oblivion when the detective murmured almost to himself, his voice barely overlapping the soft music. "And while you're in a forgiving mood, I should tell you that I set fire to your bed.. Terrible mess, but it should be fine once I decide to buy you another one."

"Mhm.. S'all righ- Wait, you _what?_ "

"Shh, you're supposed to be sleeping."

"Yes, yes.. But I'm not taking th' couch. You'll just have to learn to budge over for a bit."

He could almost sense the other's tiny smile, allowing himself to be drawn into the sweet sound of vindication.

Of course it had all been a lie, there were no disasters in that reality.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Well, there's that. Written all at a go at around 4AM this morning, please refrain from sending contagious diseases and flesh eating bacteria in the mail, the internet is already a dangerous place. Comments are love!

  
Not quite as bad as it could have been?  
Enjoy!


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